


Autumnal Equinox

by Everlind



Series: Centaurstuck [5]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Centaurs (trying) to have sex, Centaurstuck, Complete with all centaur parts, Heat/Rut Season, M/M, That means horse boners, alternate universe - centaurs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-11
Updated: 2014-08-11
Packaged: 2018-02-12 18:27:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2120211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Everlind/pseuds/Everlind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You’re blaming John for this. You are so blaming John for this. You’re blaming John all the fucking way.</p><p>John isn’t even a female, so he should slide clear under your radar, but your hormones seem to go fuck that noise and fuck biology while we’re at it, because he smells <i>really. fucking. good.</i> It’s hard to control yourself around him and that’s… yeah. That’s terrible, isn’t it? It is, you know it is, but you fucking want to, well, fuck him. Devour him. Tear him apart and burn him to the ground. It’s his fault, because he’s amazing and he’s wonderful and you’re the luckiest sorry bastard ever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Autumnal Equinox

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ThePioden](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePioden/gifts).



There’s a real bite to the air today.

You don’t feel cold. Don’t feel cold at all. Feel like there’s electricity travelling under the surface of your skin, with big whorls in your head, chest, groin, where the energy pools and churns relentlessly in on itself before coursing on, leaving you heated and prickly.

You’re tired. You’re hungry. Don’t know hungry for what, even. For a fight or a fuck or maybe plain old food. 

It’s never been this bad before. Ever. Seriously. You feel like a huge fucking creep, but the girls all smell amazing, this warm musky good  _come here_  sort of scent that makes you want to press your face -your body- close, find out if it is as good on your tongue, too. Basically you feel like the world biggest pervert, because everybody has become all  _hmmm yes please_. It’s godawful, like you morphed into one of those horny little terriers that are so fucking ready to hump the shit out of just about anybody and everything, even if that includes Vriska or ( _oh god why_ ) Kanaya. It helps to fence with Kankri, but you were a little too rough earlier and nearly poked out his eye. Cue endless stream of bitching, that useless hypocrite, so you just up and fucking left.

So that’s why you’re out here all by yourself (not too far, though, you’re still safely within the perimeter). If anybody asks, you can always say you’re attending to your Cursores responsibilities. Even though if someone snuck up on you they could probably blow your brains out before you managed to drag your attention away from the crawling ache in your groin.

You’re blaming John for this. You are so blaming John for this. You’re blaming John all the fucking way.

John isn’t even a female, so he should slide clear under your radar, but your hormones seem to go fuck that noise and fuck biology while we’re at it, because he smells _really. fucking. good_. It’s hard to control yourself around him and that’s… yeah. That’s terrible, isn’t it? It is, you know it is, but you fucking want to, well, fuck him. Devour him. Tear him apart and burn him to the ground. It’s his fault, because he’s amazing and he’s wonderful and you’re the luckiest sorry bastard ever.

He’s great. He’s pretty much everything you’ve wanted for years, and now that you have him, you won’t allow yourself to fuck it up because your libido is shrieking at you to  _hump all the things, it’ll be fun_. Especially John. It should be special, your first time with him. Not a horny fumble because it’s rut season. Urgh.

What a disaster. At least you’re alone with your miserable self.

“Hi Karkat!” 

“GAH!” you just about jump a mile, all four legs lifting clear off the ground as you spring sideways and careen gracelessly into a tree. 

John grins at you. “Bad conscience much?” he snickers.

“Don’t sneak up on me!” you hiss and oh no oh god oh fuckshit there you go, like someone’s pouring you full of hot water. “What are you  _doing_ here?”

Slow blink. Headtilt. “Looking for you?” he offers.

“Well, you found me,” you huff, hugging your arms close around yourself because you’re brimming full now. Feels like you’re about to spill over the edges of yourself, liquid heat washing from your crotch and up, all the way to your throat and escaping onto your tongue. Your mouth grows moist out of sheer wanting. 

And, fuck,  _how_  you want him. John should look like the biggest, dumbest douchebag right now; gone all shaggy with his winter coat and with a dumb knitted beanie jammed lopsided over his ears. Instead he looks gorgeous, fleet-footed but strong and the blue of his thick hoodie only serves to offset his eyes and you want all of that. 

 _All_  of it.

Can’t. And don’t you fucking know you can’t, can’t ever. You’re not suicidal, he’d do irreparable damage, pound you to a hairy pulp of regret and wayward hormones. Fitting end though that might be, you didn’t sign up to get fucked to death by your boyfriend. Knowing it is impossible doesn’t do jack shit. Doesn’t stop you from wanting— from wanting him to… to… rghh  _holiest of most assward fucks_ you want him to fuck you. Want him to mount you and pin you down with his weight and fuck the bleeding hell out of you with that huge dick of his. Ha fucking  _ha_ , isn’t that the funniest of funny fun-time with Karkat’s fucked up psyche jokes, huh? And John just stands there peering at your face,  _worried_  for you, and having not a single damn clue of what’s whirling through your head. You feel shameless and sleazy and you kind of want to die (but also get off).

So you cover your face with your hands, hope he’ll just get a frickin’ clue and  _leave_  already.

No such chance. Obviously. This is John fucking Egbert and he wasn’t even in the fucking line when they were handing out common sense. John stays. Mulish. Very apt. 

“Well, I was worried,” John says, eyes on the crystalline forest floor between you both. Idly cuffs a hoof, scraping up a fine layer of frost to bare a dark trail of earth. “You’ve been looking really stressed and I think you’ve lost weight, too, so,” he shrugs, right shoulder first.

“I’m fine, John,” you tell him gruffly. More shifting. John swishes his tail restlessly. It’s thick, shines in the low light. Jade makes a good grooming buddy, you note absently.

“I’m kinda worried Vriska’s mom is putting too much pressure on you?” he admits. “With the whole cursor thing.”

You frown at him.

“Cursores,” he corrects himself. 

“This has nothing to do with that.”

“Ah- _hah_!” John points a finger into your face. Actually goes as far to lift both front legs off the ground for a beat, before slamming them down hard. “So there  _is_  something wrong!”

 _Waitaminute_. That sneaky piece of shit. You totally fell for that one, didn’t you? Dammit.

 “John-“ you start on a sigh, but he cuts you off.

“You should tell me about it,” he insists. “Because I care, okay, and you’re getting really skinny and it’s kinda freaking me out. Here, by the way,” he shoves a soft lump into your hands. It’s carefully folded into a napkin, slightly spongy when you knead it with the tips of your fingers. “It’s apple cake! Jane made it with the last of Dave’s apples.”

His fingers brush yours when you take the package from him. You go prickly-hot from antlers to groin. God. You snatch it out of his hands, scuttle backwards, clutching it to your chest. Crack open the packing. Butter and apples and cinnamon  _oh god_  the scent all but backhands you across face like you’re its bitch and your stomach  _screams_  with hunger. You’re starving.

The first bite makes you whimper and hunch a little as your body breaks out in goosebumps. Then you’re shovelling it into your face even as your stomach roils in protest at being given something so heavy and sugary after such a long period of subsiding on the bare minimals. For a single, blissful minute, eating takes up all of your energy. Just nothing but you and the sating of your hunger. It’s delicious, Dave’s tiny-ass orchard grows spectacular apples and Jane is a goddess in the kitchen, it’s like a goddamn symphony of everything good and right on your palate. 

“Nice,” John says mildly, as you lick crumbs off of your fingers. “Not like I wanted a slice or anything.”

“Oh,” you grunt, feeling like a total ass. “Shit, I-“

“I’m joking, you dumbass,” he exclaims, smiling bright enough the corners of his eyes crinkle.  _Ngh no stop_. “Besides, if I wanted a taste, I could still do  _this_!” 

He kisses you. Your mouth is open on a half-formed  _NO_  and John catches it neatly.

Everything goes bright. That’s how it feels. Winter-bright and summer-searing and glittering. 

John’s mouth is hot and wet and fuck, so _good_. He takes your weight easy as you rear up on your hind legs, just as he takes the muzzy needy noise you make against his lips. You shake as he licks into your mouth, a line of silky-slick sensation against your tongue, clutch at him with both arms, even as you grip his waist with your front legs. It’s exactly what you need and you can hardly stand it. You shake, hard, and hold him tighter.

“Wow,” John exhales, lips still matched again yours. The sound rolls straight from his mouth into yours.

You’re rapidly going mindless with wanting for him, so you just respond with a wordless: “Haa _aa_ -“ of complaint because he’s not allowed to fucking stop, not now, anything but now, a little more and you’ll back off, but  _please_  just-

“We’ve never kissed like this bef—  _hm_!” you grab the collar of his hoodie, haul him down. John trails off into a faint moan as you work at his parted mouth. The taste of him is deep and sultry; he tastes good, tastes amazing and he’s breathing hard and his lips are sticky on yours and his fingers are tracing along the sliver of bare skin at your throat and you feel light in your head and heavy in you groin, it’s unbearable and you break away, suddenly restless and reeling.

“Sorry,” you moan, punch-drunk and so fucking horny he’d only have to say the word and he could have you. Right here, right now, shit, you don’t give a damn, take me now and make it quick chop chop, biological imperative waits for no one, that bastard. Which is why you need to stop. Really: fuck you and fuck your libido. John deserves perfect. You need to stop. Now. “Fuck okay, sorry—I’m, I don’t—”

“What?” John says, dazed. His voice is so different, all gut-shiveringly low and thick. Chases after your retreating mouth and kisses you again, lazily sucking at your bottom lip.

When you push at his chest, however, he pulls back. Pants softly into the space between you, quick bursts of misty exhales. “Too far?” he asks, eyes concerned, like it’s all his fault or something.

(it is, obviously)

(but it’s yours more than his)

“No, ’s… is just—“  _goooood_ , shit, the words slip through your mind like those glimmering little fishes in the stream. There and gone, so fast it could’ve been a reflection on the surface.

“Tell me?” John tries again, sliding his fingers from your neck up along your face before raking them tenderly through your hair. Hm, nice. Not nice for long because suddenly: “What the— OH SHIT KARKAT YOU ARE BLEEDING FROM THE HEAD WHAT THE FUCK!“

“John, no wait- argh!” he’s picking through your curls to find the source of the problem, only to freak out even more when he finds it.

“Your antlers are bleeding,” he’s babbling in this strangled, shrill voice like someone shoved a truck up his ass. It’d be hilarious under any other circumstances. Not quite so much right now with his hands poking at your head in a clumsy frenzy. Because ouch, a little.

“Grrrh -FUCK OFF, JOHN!” you snarl, grabbing his wrists and wrenching them away. “It’s normal, okay, no wai- STOP TOUCHING MY HEAD, ASSCLOWN!”

The two of you struggle for a second. Mainly succeed in looking like complete fools trying to tango their ninny asses straight to hell. You on your hind legs and kicking feebly at him with your front ones, both sets of arms going everywhere and he with his beanie at half-mast so one pointy ear pokes its way to freedom - _just like another part of him is poking its way to freedom_. Some hysterical part of your mind is going: ‘whoomp there it is!’. You’ve seen his damn dick before, equitaurs have no shame and no restraint, one pleasant breeze and BAM, welcome to boner town. Okay, fine,  _yes_ , morbid fascination and you are intimately familiar by now. One: it’s huge, two: it’s attached to John, so obviously you’re going to fucking look when it’s right there. He’s your boyfriend, so his genitals neatly fit within the category of your interests. This time, however, all higher brain functions cheerfully flatline and spell out:  _gimme_.

“Have you no self-control!” you shriek, voice high and reedy with panic because you’re talking more to yourself than to him at this point. 

“Dude, what do you expect when you kiss me like that?” John snaps back, still trying to look at your head. But,  _huh_. For the first time he blushes hard enough you can see him go ruddy despite his bronze skin, which is enough of an indicator how affected he just is.

“I’m not waving mine around like I’m cheering for the annual spring race!” you return and finally manage to shove free of him. Your hooves land hard against the frozen ground. The impact sends a slight twinge through your hind leg, but you’ll be damned if you let it show on your face. It’d just make him worried - _er_. If that is even possible.

“It’ll go away, okay? Geez,” he snorts and it’s just like a horse, he even hacks irritably at the ground with his right hoof. 

You’re breathing hard. “It’s cold enough it’ll freeze off!”

“My dick will be fine, Karkat! Thank you  _ever so much_  for your concern. Now can I please just look at your antlers already?” 

Everything feels hot and frantic and inflamed, you’re so fucking sorry you pushed him away, you just want him  _back._  Close and soft and hard against you. So when he slowly advances, hands up in there air all ‘ _see? not gonna touch_ ’, you let him. John doesn’t touch. Just peers down at your head -which is easy with his height- making sympathetic noises.

“That looks painful,” he mutters.There’s tacky red smears on his fingers. Your blood. 

“It’s okay,” you say thickly, swaying towards the heat of his presence. Not nearly as painful as the ache in your groin.

John’s quiet for a while. Then, gritted: “Did you… did you rub them against that tree over there?”

“I—“ 

You did. God. This is one of those moments where you really don’t understand how John can even stand to be with you. It must seem so fucked up to him, scraping your head agains the rough bark until the velvet comes off in bloody shreds.  _You_  must seem so fucked up to him.

John sucks in a breath. “Oh,” he goes. And then, a little louder. “Oh!”

 _Oh_ , is about right. Seems like his brain finally clued in to Modified Biology again. About due time, the slowpoke.

“It’s  _that_  time of the year, isn’t it?” John hazards, tentatively cupping his hands over your shoulders. “Why didn’t you say so?”

“I can already imagine how that stellar dialogue would’ve gone down,” you grumble, finally allowing yourself to tip into him so you can press your face into his chest. Breathe him in.  _God_.

“So you’re like, what, super horny now?” he asks, giving you his sideways-total-douchebag grin and okay, right, you suddenly vividly remember this is the same mentally underdeveloped donkey turd capable of pissing you off so bad you choke on your own rage spittle. 

You lash out at him and John, knowing he’s being a total pissant, instantly jumps out of range with a laugh. Keeps pivoting his big black ass away as you circle along with him to get a clear shot. “Stand still you prancing rectal belch,” you bark at him, just as you make a lunge-and-swipe. He’s too fast for you to turn and kick now, so you play dirty and grab his tail.

John yowls and stands very still. “Don’t pull my tail!” he pleads, as you wind most of it around your hand.

“I should yank the damn thing off and shove it up your shit tunnel -you’d fucking deserve it.”

John automatically clamps his tail flat against his ass and makes a face at you. “Well, at least now I know why you’ve been so damn cranky,” he mutters.

“Fuck you.”

A laden pause. “Well,” John starts. Stops. Clears his throat. “Well, that’s what… what you want, right?”

He looks at you, bright eyed and a lot less shy than he fucking should be, because  _what the hell what was that_? You think your face might just melt off. Fuck. You unclench your hand, allow the thick bushiness of his tail to spill through your fingers, downwards. It arcs through the cold winter air with a soft swish. You feel like the biggest idiot. 

“It’s not, John, we don’t—don’t have to,” you’re stammering around your humiliation. “You don’t have to feel like you— well, because you  _don’t_ , okay, you don’t fucking have to.”

“Yeah, I got that,” he says impatiently. “But what ifI want to?”

You gape at him.

“Or is that like, taking advantage of you?” he adds, face scrunching up. “Uhm—”

“More like the other way around,” you point out hastily, before he can convince himself he’d somehow be doing you wrong.

“Wait, no. That’s not how it…” he splutters.

“ _You_  wouldn’t have brought it up if  _I_  wasn’t being a total disgusting pervert.”

“ _I_  didn’t bring it up before because I wasn’t sure  _you_  would even want to,” John counters.

“Why the ever bleeding fuck wouldn’t I want to?!” you scream at him, gesturing wildly with both hands because  _look at yourself,_ you horrible gorgeous horsey simpleton! Why the hell wouldn’t anyone want to get up close and personal with that?

“I don’t know!” he yells back, yanking his beanie off his head and strangling it between his hands. Now his hair is all staticy fluffy, it’s cute. Every single muscle in his body has gone tense, corded, and his ears are flattened back.

Right. You’re not a fucking idiot. John’s not fooling you at all -you just _know_  this is going to boil down to one of the many interspecies sloppy make-outs obstacles clomping circles around you both like a giant pink elephant suffering from explosive diarrhea. Yeah, granted, that probably means you should talk about it. Problem? Well, usually there is no goddamn answer. Way too often it’s just this godawful awkward  _thing_ neither of you know how to fix. 

So. Solution? Fuck  _that_. You have a better idea.

“Well, I want to,” you tell him, gruff and angry and brutally honest. “I’ve wanted for quite a while now.”

John blinks at you. Smiles, tentatively pleased. “Really?”

“Yeah, but, fuck, it should be special. Not because I’m— I’m being-“

Two hands frame your face, thumbs slotting under the slant of your jaw. It sends a single hard hungry shudder down to the core of your being. Your cheeks burn as John coaxes your head up, lowers his own. Presses both your faces together -close enough to share shaking exhales, close enough you can feel rather than see him smile. The tip of his nose is cold against your cheek. “Who says it wouldn’t be?” he says softly and just a little hopeful.

The hopeful is what does it. Okay. Wow. Yes. You don’t smile back. “There’s nobody at my place,” you blurt, then inwardly go: fuuuuuck. Yeah. Real smooth.

John merely nods. “Let’s go.”

The two of you trot at a brisk pace along the edge forest, following the well-traveled outline. It’s cold enough everything shimmers with rime, crystalline filigree climbing up dark branches and yellowed shrubs. It’s that time of winter where everything breathes in deep, and holds it breath until spring. Biding its time. Compared to John you’re soundless. No matter if you’re all but cross-eyed with arousal and blundering along a great deal more careless than usual. John follows with a rhythmic  _clop-clop-clop_ , a sound you’ve grown extremely fond of in a painfully short while. 

Okay, recap. So you might be minutes away of getting to touch your boyfriend’s big horse dick. You might be freaking about that. Just a little. Quietly on the inside. Shit. John’s right, both of you want to (god you how _want_  to, even running fucking hurts, your entire pelvis feels numb and thick with need), so why wait? Like what, you should’ve bought him dinner first or whatever? Made sure it was spring so you could lay him down on a bed of roses? That’s utterly naive and you know it, but you still kind of figured there’d be a moment that was all, well…. so obviously special and magical there’d be no mistaking it.

Like a movie.

Jesus, you really are walking disaster, aren’t you? Urgh.

“C’mon,” you say, stopping him just shy from rounding that final outcropping sheltering the village proper. There’s no way you’re towing John through the crowd of nosey twiddlefucks who must be beginning to gather at the communal kitchens right around this time. They’d  _know_  as soon as they’d look at you. Hell, if your dad was there -and he probably is- he might even cheer or something. Give you some hints. A few techniques. A fatherly pat on the back. Subtly threaten John with imminent death. Yeah, no fucking way. So into the trees you go.

John blunders through the undergrowth, despite the skeletal and bare of everything. He’s build for wide-open spaces. You can tell he carefully considers where to set down each huge hoof, can see him wince as branches snag at his tail. Waiting until he’s caught up, before indicating he’s got to try and be silent, because you’ll be approaching the first dwellings. You weave through the trees, hop over a heap of dead branches and finally push through the bushes and unto one of the many needle thin pathways criss-crossing around and through the village. Just a short walk, John coming after you rustling every damn bush lining the path with his big butt, and then you find one of the inconspicuous side entrances to your house.

Stick your head in.

Nobody home. Thank  _god_.

It’s a tight squeeze for John, but he manages squirm through. The first clop of his hooves on the wooden planking sounds excessively loud, but he’s inside your house and nobody is falling out of the woodwork to provide lewd commentary.  _Hallelujah_. You shove him towards your room, pack him inside and for the first time ever regret not having a lock on your door.

Right.

John’s in your room, flipping on heating and peeling off his thick hoodie.

John. 

Is in your room. Taking off clothes. Oh god, this is really happening. Oh god, what do you do?

“You don’t have to,” you manage at last, firmly ignoring the way your crotch feels like a bruise.

John though, John just holds out his hand towards you. Palm up, fingers in a loose, curling beckon. It’s just as much of a question. One you do have an answer to. You take it. Fingers lace together.

The mattress goes  _fhump_  under his weight and you go through your knees along with him. Your chest is screwed tight with nerves and your belly has gone jittery, hell, your  _hands_  shake, but when John kisses you, very carefully, just grazing them along yours, it’s like fire. Kiss him back, just as softy.

It’s already going dark. The room is shadowy, makes it feel like a hidden burrow just for the both of you. Makes it easier to relax, the darkness, even if that’s ridiculous and makes fuck-all sense, but it’s not quite so difficult to let John take your shirt off. Warm palms stroke up and down your ribcage, fit against the curve of your back. He lifts away from your mouth with a delicate wet noise, to pick out tiny kisses against the discoloured dapples you have on your shoulders, arms, upper chest, a weird-ass mutation that echoes your coat in negative tones. You moan faintly as he follows them along your collarbone, your chin tipping up of its own accord to bare your throat for him.

John nips at your jugular, lightly, but sharp and sudden, giving you a weird-ass jolt of instinctive fear and pleasure. You grip his foreleg and squeeze, panting.

“Take off your shirt,” you say, hands already scrabbling at the hem so you can pull it up and get at his skin.

“Oh,” John swallows. “I— yeah, hang on.”

He’s shy about that, you know, even though he really shouldn’t because your mouth goes dry as he curls down to pull the fabric over his head. After all the hard labor of summer did wonders on him. The muscle in his stomach and chest alternately tightens and relaxes exquisitely as he shimmies out of his clothing. You trail appreciative fingers along the delineation jumping to contrast. That’s not what he’s shy about, though. It’s the extended line of his hair running down along his nape towards his spine, trickling only to a stop past his shoulder blades. It’s not something all equitaurs have and those who do usually shave it off.

It’s something you honestly don’t understand. It’s strangely, well,  _human_ , deliberately getting rid of harmless hair like that. So, yes, obviously trimming your tail or the hair on your head or face, heck the Megidos even cheerfully pull off wool -those things you get. Hygiene or personal comfort, stuff like that. Sure. Makes sense.

John tried to explain it once, mumbling and evasive, something along the lines of ‘excessive back hair’ and ‘like a human having a weird stubby tail thing’.

It’s absolute bullshit, and you pointedly ignore his sharp intake to soothe your fingers along it. For a moment he stays tense - _run!_ \- before suddenly going shivery soft in your arms. You go further down to knead fingers into his thick winter coat.

“Karkat,” he gasps, tucking his face against your shoulder.

Everything is made about a fuckton of times more complicated because it’s not  _easy_  to shuffle around once you’re lying down and John’s trying to compact his legs under himself so you can get as close as possible, but his body goes on for miles and you can only stroke part of his flank, the side of his belly, his front legs. When you curve your fingers around the front of his forelimb ankle and tuck them in the depression under the fetlock, you can feel his pulse race. His second heart.

That’s all the both of you do for a while, just petting really, for comfort as much as because it just feels good. John’s  _incredibly_  good with his hands. It’s something you’d never have expected from him, but he really is. Long fingers, but strong and he gives great massages. The few times he groomed you he reduced you to a puddle of  _yes good proceed_. He’s working his magic now, putting rolling pressure on your shoulders, your flanks, paying equal attention to both your upper and lower body. Better even when his mouth finds yours and he just sort of licks at the contours of your lips, unhurried and heavy until you part them. Just laps straight into the heat of your mouth instead.

Everything starts tingling, then sizzling and before long it’s crawling sharp. By now you’re hurting from it, enough that you claw at his chest when he finally ventures low enough to pet his hand against the underside of your lower belly. Fingertips comb lightly through the hair.

“John,” you groan.

“It’s okay,” he answers, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Go on.”

You sob, god, you’re aching so much, but you tighten all the muscles of your lower abdomen, breath going backwards as you finally slide free of your sheath.

John  _stares_. You’re ready to abort mission, strap rockets your your feet and hurl yourself into next century. You’ve no idea what you’re doing, how this even works with him. This is a bad idea.

“Huh,” he goes, curiously, and you’d smack him if you weren’t too busy going to pieces because  _those are his fingers_  slowly stroking along up and down your dick. And John… doesn’t seem to mind at all you’re comically small compared to him. He catches your cock against your belly with his palm and keeps you pinned there, and you whine in defeat, in pure surrender.

“Please,” you choke out.

He bites you. He actually fucking  _bites_  you again. Hard and short on the meaty part of your bicep, a sharp snap of teeth. It’s possessive and arrogant and so strange. Blearily you wonder if that’s an equitaur thing. It’s a little scary and a lot hot as hell and you can feel yourself go muzzy and stupid with arousal. He nibbles the edge of your jaw and the modest swell of your left pectoral, these languid sucking bites that are teeth first and tongue second, and by the time he reaches your other shoulder you’re so boneless you collapse onto your side. That’s good, that perfect, leaving you curved around his chest, forelimbs tucked against his left shoulder and the hind ones against his right, his own front knees snug against your belly and his hands within reach of  _everything_.

John’s breathing is shallow, fast, reminds you of racing with him. “This okay?” he wants to know, thumbing at the tapered tip of your dick, while his other hand uncertainly folds around your buttock.

Nodding wordlessly you just roll further towards your back. He takes the hint and winds his hand properly around your dick. Pumps it, too slow to do much, but you cry out anyway, curling up at the sudden raw spike of pleasure. There’s a hard shoulder covered in soft hair against your face as you sob: “John, John,  _John_ , oh fuck please, please—“

“I got you,” he answers, hushed. “I got you.” Both hands on your crotch now, working you over fast, clumsy and eager to please. You manage to crack your eyes open long enough to witness the way he’s looking at you right then, awed and affectionate and just a little bit terrified. Oh god, that’s terrible, he’s so gorgeous, you can’t fucking stand it, can’t stand the building pressure in your loins, the prickling broiling sensation that you can taste on your tongue and feel behind your eyes and just like that the orgasm hits you, hard, and you nearly burst into tears out of sheer relief. 

Almost nauseous from the intensity, you suck in thready gulps of air as you rattle through the aftershocks. Hands pet your lower stomach, your flanks, your hind legs and you let him, dazed, let him trace out the contours of your body in the dark. You feel battered. Exhausted. But fuck, so good.

Cheeky bastard that he is, John finds your tail and catches it carefully between his fingers. Tweaks it. “You have the cutest tail, dude,” he says, voice hushed with fondness. There’s a smile in it, too.

You don’t even have the energy to flip him off, just lie there reeling and breathless, somehow having migrated completely against his chest, in his lap, his front legs bony ridges under your ribs. It’s a strange, unnatural way for him to lie. Rather like a cat would, perching on top of his limbs instead of sprawling sideways. Would hurt his hind legs if it weren’t for the mattress. John’s rubbing your lower back and you’re folded so close against him you can easily reach his lower stomach, and even the sharp rounded arc of his stifle. 

“Budge over,” you tell him, stretching to poke his lower belly. “Let me—“

“You don’t have to,” John blurts hurriedly and you can feel him tense up all over again. A horse shaped brick of nerves. “It’s okay! Seriously, don’t worry about it.”

Fuck. 

That’s what you get, you suppose, for always making such a big deal about his dick. (granted; it is a big deal.  _LITERALLY_ , okay, your boyfriend is literally hung like a horse)

“John, I fucking swear, if you don’t let me touch your dick I will be extremely cranky.”

“But—“

“Do you or do you not have a boner?”

“Uh.”

“ _John_.”

“Well, yeah, but—“

“Shut up,” you snap. “Do you or do you not want to get off?”

“That’s not what—“

“John!”

“Yes, okay, but-“

“Then tip over so I can finally get my hands on you,” you yell. Add a little more gently: “I  _want_  to, okay?”

For a minute or two you’re sure he’s going to refuse. But then he does, shifting long limbs carefully. Kinda hurts against your lower torso’s ribs when his front legs slide sideways, but wow, you couldn’t care less, really. Hello John’s cock. We meet again. His flanks pump for air frantically, a combination of worry and arousal. When you wrap a hand around him you fear he might hyperventilate.

“Calm down,” you tell him, smoothing a hand along his black coat. “Shh, you big stupid lump, calm down. Relax.”

You palm the weird flat tip of him, clumsy and worried for how good you want to make it for him. John makes this dick-wrenchingly low moan. Lays down his upper body across your hindquarters, hands convulsing in your coat. Hm. You’re… you’re going to need both hands for this, aren’t you? Fuck. Alright. (you’re not jealous at all, nope)

It’s… difficult. Your wrists ache and you’re pretty sure this is the worst double hand job in the history of hand jobs.

“Karkat,” he gasps, in this perfect, destroyed voice. “Ah  _fuck_ —“

You wish you could see his face, god, you really wish you could, because he’s melting against you into this needy, pleading messy fudge, ever so slightly flexing into your grip and he’s sloppy and over-heated and perfect. You hitch yourself closer, kiss his stomach (and get a face full of hair but whatever) and work him over as best as you can, which still isn’t easy. You’re going to have to make him show you how he does it himself, but later, not now, because he shakes all over and bites your hip as he comes. Wet heat splatters along your arms, along your chest, even your upper belly as well as his own and John makes a noise like you killed him, sobbing into your coat.

Both of you lie like that for a while, tangled and sex-drunk and faintly shocked because, wow. You just… had sex. With your boyfriend. From another species. 

And nobody died. Heh.

It was… pretty amazing, actually.

*

Long after, after you’ve cleaned up and collapsed in a heap of limbs, tenderly touching hands and tired kisses, John hums sleepily: “You should eat.”

You’re not at all interested in food, actually. Kind of getting turned on again. Urgh. 

“You should stay the night,” you return, rather moronically, because this is the best thing. This right here, tucked up and slotted together.

John nuzzles at your ear, hums a little. Yawns. “…kay.”

It’s difficult to think, you’re stupidly happy and belatedly shell-shocked with the whole of it. Your mouth burns from all the kissing but when he dips his head for more you let him, exchanging chaste pecks before coming together into something much wetter and hotter, open-mouthed and regretless. Nothing could’ve prepared you for how good this’d be. The whole of the experience is hitting you only now, it was too hard and too fast and too good, hard to think about, but it worked. Sex with John worked, and it was great. Only now you understand how scared you have been it  _wouldn’t have worked_.

Your room smells like sex, pungent and unmistakable. What you want is for John to stay the night, you so desperately want that, but it is getting late. If you want to make that call you should do it now, before he gets reported as missing (again) and sends both Alternia and Prospit into a frenzy (again). You’re really not interested in an impromptu search party barging into your bedroom. Which means hauling your lazy carcass up and facing your family’s teasing remarks.

Dilemma. Empty bed, but dignity intact. OR your family giggling like a demented five-year olds for the rest of rut season, but John in your bed.

… _myeahokayfuckletsgetthistrainwreckoverwith_.

You’re shaky-kneed and you probably have jizz in your coat, but god, what-fucking-ever, you squirm out of his grabby hands, pull on a shirt and stumble through the door. Follow the mild curve of the house and emerge into the living room.

“Done  _already_?”

“Porrim,” you say, unsure whether this is good or bad news for aforementioned dignity.

A sympathetic, full-mouthed smile. She’s curled up near the heater, with a thick fuzzy ball of red yarn tucked against her side and half a sleeve knitted onto needles. “Crotch jitters all better now?”

“Pending final assessment,” you allow, because  _urgh_ , still aroused, but at least you don’t want to punch yourself in the dick anymore. Motherfucking progress. “Where is everybody?”

“Nepeta shot a boar, so dinner ran late,” she answers. “I’m not so fond of pork, so I returned a little earlier to work on Kanny’s new sweater.”

“Great,” you say, and even mean it, because it’s easier for John to just  _be here_  in the morning instead of dealing with the whole wink-wink, nudge-nudge three-act production beforehand. Since the Harvest Fest he’s spent the night a handful of times. That’s not where the problem lies. It’s just that _everybody_  knows the two of you aren’t just sleeping this time. That’s not where the problem lies, either, really. The problem lies with your family and their inability to pass up any opportunity to frustrate you into a coma.

“John’s staying the night,” you add, casual as you can. All you know, by the way. Nothing weird about it. No ulterior motives. Like usual. Sleeping like angels on opposite side of the room.  

“I had figured as much,” Porrim comments dryly. “Hey there, John, honey. Nice muscles.”

Someone goes  _meep_  behind you. John, holding your shirt bunched against his chest and lurking in the hallway. “Karkat,” he hisses. “You got my fucking shirt and yours doesn’t fit me.”

That would explain why yours feels so roomy. Whatever. “Just wear your hoodie, you tragic Black Beauty reject, fuck,” you point out and John sticks out his tongue before ducking back out of sight.

Porrim observes this exchange with a bland little smile. “After you’ve called his dad you should take that boy along for dinner if he hasn’t eaten yet,” she points out.

You side-eye her. “I’m kind of trying to  _avoid_  a goddamn audience, cousin dearest,” you inform her acidly. An audience and your dad, to be honest.

“Oh, really?” she hums, raising one elegant brow. “You might want to, ah, get rid of generous application of equitaur semen currently crusted in your hair. Just a tip.”

“ _What_ ,” you cough, horrified, grabbing at your hair just as John reenters, tugging his sweater into a semblance of order. You round in him. “John, did you hose your goddamn sperm into my hair? Answer honestly and I’ll only castrate you a little.”

“Excuse me?!” he squeaks, eyes going wide and locking on the top of your head. “No, dude, what the hell!”

Porrim chuckles happily, eyes demurely back on her hands as she knits away. “I am joking, boys,” she says and grins at you both. Wickedly.

You look at John. “My family is made up of delusional harpies, clown-obsessed sociopaths and backwards dunderfucks who still giggle at poop jokes. How about it? You still sure you want to sign up for more of this intellectually compromised repartee? I know I would much rather prefer to park my ass on the ground and drag my anus along a mile of broken glass, but hey, your choice. Or funeral. Same thing.”

John rolls his eyes before reaching for your hand. Lifts it and kisses your knuckles. “ _Very_  sure.”

“Well I suppose your acumen can’t atrophy any further than it already has,” you mutter, going pink in the face and warm in your chest. “Clearly you’re already a lost cause.”

“Whatever, Karkat,” John answers, laying a kiss on your forehead.

From the corner of your eye you can see Porrim give you a thumb’s up and mouth ‘ _score_!’. You grin back at her.

This might just work out after all.

 


End file.
